


The Rest

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009)
Genre: Boarding School, F/M, First Time, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infertility, Post-X1, Relationship Problems, Repression, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-12
Updated: 2009-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Jean see Logan shopping at Whole Foods. Post X1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rest

_What we cannot speak of we must pass over in silence. **-** Ludwig Wittgenstein_

 

The Rest

 

Scott and Jean were in White Plains, shopping at the Whole Foods together. They were about to buy some decent groceries.

This was the first time they’d been out and about since Liberty Island. It was a Thursday; neither of them had to teach that day and the weather had inched above normal. They were shopping for some of the things they didn’t usually get around the mansion—couscous, for instance, or wild mushrooms to put in a salad—and Scott was about to make a dirty joke about pulled pork sandwiches, a joke they’d both appreciate—when Jean grabbed his arm and squeezed.

“Wait a second,” she said. Then she pulled him into the next aisle.

There was Logan. He was standing in the cookie aisle, a box of vanilla wafers in one hand and a box of graham crackers in the other. He was holding the box of vanilla wafers to his nose. He looked like he was about to sniff. And when he saw Jean, he looked up, startled.

“Logan,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

It had been a week since Logan had absconded with Scott’s motorcycle. Quite frankly, Scott was shocked as hell to see him. He thought Logan would be halfway to Alaska by now—or at least halfway to wherever he was planning on going, and Scott didn’t particularly care where that might be.

Scott was glad to see Logan. Only because he really wanted his motorcycle back.

“Oh,” Logan said. “Oh.” He held both boxes in his hands. Then he put the vanilla wafers back. “Hi, Jean.” He looked at Scott. “Scott.”

“You’re back in New York already,” Jean said. “The professor said you were headed up north. How was it?”

Logan was quiet. Then he said, “I actually haven’t left yet.” He cleared his throat. “I just had to take care of a few things here first.”

A very awkward, unpleasant moment passed. Scott and Jean just stared at Logan.

Logan seemed to sense that they needed a more detailed explanation—they needed him to paint a picture. He said, “Money. I needed some money.”

Scott wondered what a man like Logan did for money. Probably nothing legal. Scott decided then and there that he really didn’t want to know—he didn’t want to be a party to Logan’s secret little life. But at the same time, he found Logan’s need for money somewhat touching. Logan was just a poor schlub; he needed money just like anyone else—even he had to eat and buy gas and dress himself.

Scott said, “Were you planning on returning my motorcycle, Logan?”

And Logan said, “Yes.”

Scott said, “When?”

And Logan said, “In a few days.”                                                      

Scott put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

“So where are you off to right now?” Jean said. And then she said this: “Scott and I were about to have lunch. You’re welcome to join us.”

Logan surprised Scott by saying, “Sure.”

Scott sensed that Jean was surprised too. But this was the thing: he couldn’t quite tell if she had made the offer out of politeness, or if she genuinely wanted Logan to have lunch with them.

Then Scott felt a certain sourness. He had been looking forward to this day off with Jean, just the two of them making jokes about pulled pork sandwiches, or talking about taking a boat out when the weather got a little nicer. They’d earned it; Liberty Island had been a little too close for anyone’s definition of comfort. But now they had _Logan_. Christ, they might as well have just brought John or Bobby or any other hormonally challenged teen along. At least when one of those kids hit on Jean they were more subtle about it.

There was a moment of slight awkwardness. Finally Logan said, “Are you going to eat here?” and at the same time Jean pointed in the direction of the automatic doors and said, “There’s a Chinese place—”

“—with really good crab rangoon,” Scott finished. “Right around the corner. We always hit it up when we come to White Plains.”

“Great,” Logan said. He looked down at the graham crackers in his hand. “Why—”

“How about we meet you up front in ten minutes?” Jean said. “That’ll give us both enough time to get what we need.”

Logan nodded and then turned back to the cookies.

Jean pulled Scott along and into the next aisle where they scooped up some noodles and tomato sauce.

“What do you think he’s doing here?” Scott whispered.

“Shush,” Jean said.

“I don’t mean in White Plains. I mean in Whole Foods.”

Jean straightened and gave Scott a look.

“Do you think Logan really gives a shit about eating macrobiotically? It’s bizarre.”

Jean dropped a jar of olives into the cart. “Last time I checked, you really didn’t give a shit about eating macrobiotically.”

“Well, thank God I have you.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure that Logan hadn’t come around the corner. “Seriously?” he mouthed. “What is he doing here?”

She looked at him and shrugged.

They located Logan again when they’d finished at the check-out. He looked wan and uncomfortable and very out-of-place. Scott suspected that Whole Foods was just not his gig. Perhaps crowded places in general were just not his gig. Logan seemed like the type of guy who needed a lot of space.

He didn’t have a grocery bag. Whatever he’d bought was small enough to fit inside of his pack.

They led Logan outside and around the corner to China Way—a standard type of Chinese place with a picture menu and a counter and a staff whose first language was probably Spanish. They stood in front of the menu together and didn’t talk. Logan stood with his hands in his pockets. When he made up his mind, he finally approached the girl at the cash register and ordered won ton soup and a few egg rolls.

Jean went up next to him and put in her order. She ordered for Scott, too. She always knew what Scott wanted. When Logan reached in his back pocket for his wallet, Jean set her hand on his arm. “No, Logan. It’s on us.”

“No way,” he said, flipping his wallet open.

“Ah,” she said, holding up her hand. “We asked. It’s only fair.”

Logan pulled back and studied her. Then he gave Scott a quick glance.

“You can buy our next lunch,” Scott said. “When you’re back in town. Then it’ll be your turn.” He inhaled. “But really, we insist.”

This seemed to satisfy Logan. He stepped back and let Jean hand the cashier her credit card.

Scott thought that Logan should have put up more of a fight. If it had been him, he would have at least pulled out some cash. But what annoyed Scott more was how Logan looked at Jean: longingly. He didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were fixed to her as she signed the receipt, put her credit card back into her purse, and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

Logan was keeping himself in check, though. Probably because Scott was around.

Scott approached Jean, tucking his arm in hers. He turned to Logan. “We’re going to eat outside.”

“Outside?” Logan said. “Isn’t it a little cold for that?”

“It’s balmy,” Scot said.

“If you say so,” Logan said.

Jean turned to face Logan. “You have to remember that Scott’s from Alaska.”

“I’m from Hawaii,” Scott said. “And I think it’s balmy outside.”

“We always eat outside,” Jean said. She smiled.

They did. They always found a bench and huddled together no matter what month of the year it was. In January they simply dusted the snow off the bench; in July they angled themselves to sit in the shade. These lunches were something they simply shared; they had precious little time together, just the two of them. It was good to be outside as long as it wasn’t pouring rain or hailing.

Logan followed them into the gray afternoon.

On the bench under the sycamore tree, Scott zipped up his jacket and put his arm around Jean while she dug into the rice. Logan sat at the other end of the bench and took the lid off of his soup. He reached for a spoon.

“So, what are you looking for, Logan?” Scott asked. (He just couldn’t help himself. He’d wondered how long he’d last before asking Logan such a question—not long, apparently.)

“Don’t really know,” Logan said. “I guess I’ll know when I’ll see it.”

“And you’re going north,” Jean said.

Logan nodded. “Well, west first. Then north.” He tried a spoonful of the soup, and then looked down a little disapprovingly. He took an eggroll out of the bag and unwrapped it. He glanced up at Jean again. “So how are things?”

“Good,” Jean said.

“No problems?”

“Everything’s quiet,” Jean said.

And it was. Other than the fact that Mystique was masquerading as Senator Kelly and members of Congress were kind of in a tizzy about things, everything was nice and normal. Magneto was in jail awaiting trial. Scott sensed that they were gearing up for a small rest—a short break from the usual strife. They were just working on beefing up the security system around the mansion; the fact that Mystique had been able to sneak in had alerted them to a weakness in their defense.

“How’s the professor?”

“Much better,” Jean said, smiling.

Scott wasn’t talking because he was eating. And also: he figured that Jean did a much better job dealing with Logan than he did. It was her choice to bring Logan along. She could have fun entertaining him.

Logan took a bite of his egg roll and then recoiled. His eyes watered. He staggered to his feet and spat into a napkin. Then he threw the napkin into the garbage.

He came back and sat down. “Jesus Christ. What the hell was that?”

Scott tried hard not to smile. “Really good crab rangoon. Terrible eggrolls.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” He picked up his container of watery soup again. “So, you two, huh. You like to shop down here?”

“Not too often,” Jean said. “This is our day off. Storm will get tomorrow off. Then we all work through the weekend.”

He said nothing. He just continued to stir his soup. Then he said: “This is terrible.” He got up again and tossed the soup into the garbage can. He sat back down and said, “No wonder I never buy food other people make.”

“You know,” Scott said, sitting back and pulling his arm out from behind Jean, “everyone’s asking where you’ve gone. What should we tell them?”

“Everyone?” Logan said. “Who’s everyone?”

“Some of the kids,” Scott said. “You made quite an impression.”

This was true. The kids were still asking where the crazy dude with claws had run off to.

“How’s Rogue?” he asked immediately, as if suddenly alert to some inexplicable change in the earth’s tilt.

“She’s settling in very well,” Jean said. “The professor’s working with her. She seems to have bounced back from the entire incident.”

“She’s a good student,” Scott said. And this was true. Rogue was a good student, though she didn’t seem to defer to anyone—including him. He wondered if that was Logan’s personality shining through, or if Rogue was just the sort of girl who didn’t put up with things. That was the problem: he hadn’t had a chance to get to know Rogue before the entire “incident,” so he couldn’t tell where her personality ended and Logan’s began.

Scott made a point of knowing all of the students. He was in tune to them, even when they didn’t expect it, and knew the details of their personalities and how to predict their mood swings. It’s how he headed off problems—he knew which students worked well together and which ones needed to be kept apart. And he already detected a slight rift between John and Bobby, a rift that Rogue had unwittingly brought about. He sensed jealousy on John’s part, but he couldn’t tell if John was jealous of Bobby or of Rogue. In any case, it was something he needed to monitor.

For a guy with zero telepathic abilities, he was surprisingly good at reading the students.

He glanced again at Logan. “Rogue came to us a little behind in her schoolwork. But we expect to get her caught up this summer. Then she’ll be at grade level.”

Logan nodded and looked down. He cracked his knuckles. Then he sat back and sighed. 

###

Jean waited in the car while Scott walked with Logan over to where he’d parked the motorcycle in the Whole Foods parking lot. He thanked God when he saw it—thanked God it was still relatively intact and clean.

When they approached the bike, Logan said, “Your motorcycle sucks. It’s a bitch to turn over.”

Scott looked up. “My apologies, Logan. Next time I’m in the market for a bike, I’ll keep your personal preferences in mind.”

“That’s what I like to hear, chief,” Logan said. He smirked. Then he pulled his bag from his shoulder. It spilled open. A box of graham crackers and a disposable cell phone fell out, along with a copy of Ian McEwan’s _Atonement_.

Scott looked as Logan bent over to collect his things. At that moment he realized the bizarreness of the situation. He was attempting to say an awkward goodbye to a guy he couldn’t stand, a guy who flirted with his girlfriend, a guy who stole his motorcycle and planned to drive it to some far-off Canadian province.

“Well, take care, Logan. You’ll keep us posted?”

Logan climbed onto the motorcycle. “I’ll be back in a week,” he said.

Scott knew when he was being lied to. None of them would hear from Logan in a good long while.

When he got back to the car he found Jean in the passenger’s side seat going through his CD collection. She held up a Heart CD. “I forgot we used to listen to that one song. God, I loved that song. Why don’t you listen to this stuff anymore?”

He sighed. “Jesus Christ. Logan,” he said, reaching for the seatbelt.

“You were good with him,” Jean said. “You were on your best behavior.”

“I work with teenagers.” Scott started the car and put it in reverse. “It’s my job to be patient with those who have no tact.”

Jean was quiet for a minute. “He does have his moments,” she admitted.

“He was waiting for me to turn my back so he could hit on you again,” Scott said.

“Scott,” Jean said.

“He had a _book_ ,” Scott said, checking the rearview mirror. “He’s reading _Atonement_. He reads, apparently. Logan reads.”

Jean paused for a minute. “Why does that surprise you?”

“I wonder if he’s just planning on hanging out here in New York with my motorcycle until the thing falls apart. Seriously. I think the whole thing ‘up north’ thing smells like bullshit. We should have the professor track him.”

Jean stiffened. Scott could feel how tense she was and he wondered why she got like that about Logan. They shared similar feelings about everything else, but when it came to Logan? It was like she was . . . defensive or something. He’d tried to ignore the weird ripple that Logan had caused at the mansion, on the team, between him and Jean, but it was hard. It wasn’t that he had something to worry about—he didn’t. He wasn’t threatened, didn’t feel threatened. Didn’t feel undermined, either. But Logan was just this _thing_. This thing that he and Jean couldn’t agree on.

It wasn’t that Scott didn’t think that Logan was okay. He did. He had to grudgingly admit that the team might be better if Logan joined permanently. But Logan wouldn’t join. That was the problem. It wasn’t that they didn’t want Logan; it was that he didn’t want any part of them.

Logan was very dismissive when it came to Scott and Storm, but then there was Jean. Scott had happened across the two of them in the infirmary last week. He hadn’t been spying—Lord no—but he’d heard them talking, and he’d listened in. Logan was still “recovering” (sure) and sitting behind the gurney waiting for a shot of antibiotics or whatever, and Jean was behind the computer. And they were just talking—talking about really ho-hum stuff. Jean was telling Logan about testifying before Congress and how she’d been so nervous the night before that she hadn’t been able to sleep. (Scott hadn’t been able to sleep either.)

Logan had said, “Do you ever get any crap?” And Jean had asked him what he meant. “About your choice to wear high heels. I mean, I don’t see many doctors in high heels.”

She had just laughed. Scott could hear her set her pen down. And that’s when he’d walked into the infirmary and Logan looked away.

They didn’t talk about that. They didn’t talk about any of it. They added it to the growing list of things they passed over in silence.

As he pulled out of the parking lot and headed back into the gray New York woods, Jean turned to look at him. “He’s going to Canada to look for something,” she said. “He’s not lying.”

“Did you read his mind again?”

Jean looked away.

The way he’d said that—well, he hadn’t meant for it to sound so mean. She must have known that he immediately felt bad. She always knew. 

He waited a few minutes. Finally he asked. “What was it like when you did that? What did you see?”

She took a deep breath. “Not much.” Then, quieter: “It was more a feeling.”

He wasn’t looking at her, but he could feel her gaze cut through the space between them. “A feeling of what?”

“Anxiety. Palpable anxiety.” She paused. She seemed sad.

“Well, he doesn’t always feel that way, does he?”

She looked out the window. “It must be terrible.” 

###

That night he told Storm about the whole encounter. She was sitting in the kitchen trying to catch up on some grading, but she just kept laughing.

“I’m supremely jealous,” she said. “It’s not fair that you should have a good Logan sighting without me. I wish I’d been there.”

“I know—it’s like he’s a sasquatch. Who knows when we’ll get another chance to partake in his splendor.” Scott was waiting for the water to boil so that he could make a cup of tea. “He was at Whole Foods.”

“You’re kidding, Scott Summers.”

“He had on a tee-shirt that said ‘welcome to the gun show.’”

“Stop,” Storm said.

“He was reading Ian McEwan’s _Atonement_.”

“Now you’re just lying.”

“I’m telling the truth. You could ask Jean.” He turned back to the kettle.

“I’d probably get a less interesting take on things if I asked Jean,” she said.

Scott tensed. He knew that Ororo didn’t mean anything by that—if anything she meant it as a compliment to Scott’s storytelling abilities—but Scott couldn’t help but feel a slight bit of discomfort. Even Storm seemed to sense that their realities weren’t quite matching up these days.

“Ororo,” he began, still looking at the kettle. He thought.

“Yeah?”

He turned to look at her. He wanted something. He wanted to be reassured. He had asked Storm only once whether or not she believed Jean would cheat on him, and it had been just a passing thing, a moment of curiosity. She’d simply laughed.

Okay—and he didn’t honestly think that Jean would cheat on him. Especially not with Logan. Christ no. If she cheated on him with anyone, it would be that hot doctor down at NYU, that geneticist she sometimes traded information with. Hot Doctor was tall and blond and from Sweden and had an accent. Rowing champion. (Such a great sport for a Viking, Scott thought.) He was Jean’s type. Not Logan.

“Never mind,” he said.

She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. “No, what?”

“I’m thinking about going back to school,” he said. And then he couldn’t believe himself. He couldn’t believe he had just said that. He had only entertained the thought briefly the other day when he was watching TV, but it had seemed like such an absurd notion.

“In what?” she said. “You already have a master’s degree.”

He nodded to himself. Any further education—a doctorate, for instance—would take more work and commitment than he could spare. He had the team, the school, his students . . . he had Jean. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I’m probably too old anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I just don’t have the time. I don’t know why I said that.”

“No one has the time,” Storm said, rising from the bench. She gathered her papers and looked at him. She looked like she wanted to ask something, but she didn’t. She told him to get a good rest.

He waited for his tea to stop steeping. Then he threw away the bag, picked up his grade book, and headed into the hallway.

He almost ran headlong into Rogue. She’d been standing right outside of the door in her nightgown and bathrobe, her gloved hands clenched together.

“Rogue,” he said, and a little bit sternly. “What are you doing out of bed?” (Then he wondered if she’d overheard the conversation about Logan. She probably had. She had Logan’s dog ears now.)

She drew in a sharp breath. “Mr. Summers?”

“What is it?”

“The rabbit died.” She pointed in the direction of the rec room. “I had to come downstairs because I forgot my homework, and that’s when I saw it.”

Seconds later they stood in the rec room together peering into the rabbit’s cage. Yeah, Mr. Doubtfire was dead. There was no uncertainty. Rigor mortis had set in and he was frozen in a stiff and slightly creepy position—curled up in a ball with one paw stretched out.

Scott realized that the rabbit had been dead for a little long while. He wondered why no one had seen. The kids visited with the rabbit at least once a day, and Scott and Jean took turns making sure he got fed. Then Scott was hit with a sense of tight guilt: he hadn’t fed Mr. Doubtfire in a while. Not since before Liberty Island. Had the rabbit starved to death? _Really_? Wouldn’t someone have noticed a starving rabbit? He took a closer look. The body didn’t appear starved or emaciated or anything. Maybe the little guy had just died of a heart attack.

Scott reached for Rogue, careful to put his hand on her covered shoulder. “Thanks for telling me, Rogue. I’ll take care of this. You go on back to bed.”

She nodded and turned to go back upstairs.

He knew he was going to have to get a bag and a shovel and work quickly before any of the other kids saw.

Half an hour later, he managed to stumble back upstairs to the room he shared with Jean. She was bent over the desk, reading glasses perched to her nose, hair pulled back. When she saw him she gave him a small smile. Then the smile dropped from her face.

“The rabbit died,” he said. He pulled his fleece off and draped it over his chair. “I was just outside burying him.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I forgot to feed him. I hadn’t fed him since before Liberty Island. I think he starved to death.”

“Oh Scott,” Jean said, pushing her chair back and taking off her glasses. “He didn’t starve to death. I remembered to feed him.”

Scott breathed a small sigh of relief.

“He must have just died of natural causes,” Jean said. “A good animal death.” She folded her hands in front of her. “You’re not a rabbit-killer.”

“Thank God. I think it’s more than my conscience could stand right now. Seriously.” He lowered himself onto the bed.

She gave him a close-lipped smile. “You know what that means. We’ll be taking the kids out to buy another Mr. Doubtfire.”

“There goes the weekend.”

She got up, moving from the chair to the bed. Very slowly.

Things were still a little strained between them, as they had been since before Logan’s arrival and the Liberty Island thing. He’d hoped to talk to her today. Then—Logan had shown up.

Jean must have sensed how anxious he was, how tense. She sat next to him and set her arm on his.

He looked her in the eye. “About that thing.”

She was still.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About everything.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” he emphasized. He cleared his throat. “I lied to you. But I was just scared. I’m scared. But still. It was wrong.”

She nudged him onto the bed so that he was lying down. Then she lay down next to him and threaded her arms around him. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t love our life as it is. Our life is perfect.”

He ran one hand along her back.

(It wasn’t perfect, though. Nothing was perfect.)

“I’ll go to the doctor,” he said. “Really, I will. For real this time.”

She pulled back and looked at him. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to. Our life is fine the way it is.”

“I’ll go,” he said. “And I’m going to marry you, too. Like I said. As soon as possible. Let’s not waste any more time.”

She lay back down against him. He could feel her hair touching his cheek.

###

Several weeks before they’d found Logan and Rogue—before the whole Liberty Island incident—Scott and Jean had been trying to have sex in the shower. The water was going, loud enough to muffle the sounds of their lovemaking (but not quite loud enough), and Scott was reaching around to support her so that he could get a better angle when he sensed that she wasn’t quite there. Not with him. She wasn’t just hesitating—she was lost. He stopped, pulled back. She stood on both feet and steadied herself against the wall.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

Her chest heaved for a second. Then she was still. “Scott,” she said. Then she said his name again.

“What?” He wanted to reach for her, but instead he turned and flipped the water off.

“I want to have a baby,” she said. In the shower, her voice was amplified.

He shook his head for a second. Tried to see her better through the condensation on his glasses. “I do too,” he replied quietly.

Of course he did. For a while he’d wanted to get Jean pregnant. And he thought he’d be a good father. He liked kids, and kids seemed to like him. He didn’t have any hang-ups about all that.

But something was seriously fucked up with this situation. Jean looked pained.

They’d had this discussion before. They both wanted children. They’d even officially “tried” a few times, but nothing had seemed to ever work out. And actually—even though they hadn’t _technically_ been trying for a while—they’d never taken many precautions against pregnancy.

Still, Jean never got pregnant. Year after year went by and nothing happened. In fact, they hadn’t had a pregnancy scare in years, not since he’d been in college and she’d been in medical school. And it turned out to be just that—a scare. Which was good news at the time. But then came the following years, their twenties and early thirties, the rest of their lives, and Jean stayed not pregnant.

Scott would be lying if he said he’d never wondered about it, never contemplated the fact that one or both of them might have some kind of problem. But he’d ever articulated the notion, never allowed himself to dwell on it for very long. He figured that maybe their inability to get pregnant was a result of the stress they experienced constantly. Their lives were pretty crazy—perhaps it was best that they didn’t have a baby right then. Or perhaps it was nature’s way of telling them that they needed to chill out and take a break from trying to save the world.

They never got a break.

Jean’s face tightened. “I want to have a baby. Before it’s too late. And it’s almost too late.” Then she reached behind the shower curtain for her towel and wrapped it around herself. She stepped out of the shower. He heard her go into the bedroom.

When he found her there, seconds later, she was slipping into her bathrobe. She was crying. She tied the bathrobe around her waist and then sat on the bed and crossed her legs and covered her forehead with one hand. He could hear her sniffling.

“Jean,” he whispered. He stood in the doorway with a towel around his waist. He’d already dried off his glasses. “Why would you say that? Have you been reading some stupid _Women’s Health_ articles or something? It’s not too late.”

Her tears seemed to hasten. “It will be soon.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “You’re a doctor. You know that women have children well into their forties these days. We have some time.”

She dropped her hand and looked up at him. Her eyes were wet with tears and very wide. “You don’t think it’s weird? All these years and . . . nothing?” Her eyes swept over him. “Scott. I went to a doctor.”

“What?” He stepped forward.

“A fertility specialist. Actually, I’ve gone to more than one. Last month I went for another opinion.”

He shook his head.

“I—Scott, it’s not me. At least not anything that they can obviously detect. I—I think you should go in for a consultation.”

He just stood there.

The moment was something he’d always remember, something he’d always take with him, and he recognized that right there. He’d always remember the fact that the lamp beside the table was flicked on but the one above the desk was off. He’d always remember that the venetian blinds were closed but a couple of them were stuck and flipped up. He’d always remember that. His own feelings he’d try to forget.

He was standing in front of the woman he loved, the woman he’d loved his entire adult life, and she was telling him that he couldn’t give her what she wanted.

First: there was the betrayal. She’d gone to these doctors without him. Without _consulting_ him. She’d done this in secret. He’d thought they didn’t have any secrets.

Second: there was the denial. It wasn’t _him_. There was nothing wrong with him. There was nothing wrong with either of them. The idea was absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Then there was the truth. The realization that came suddenly. And with that realization came a series of images, sensations. Memories he didn’t care to really dwell on, but memories that were always with him. (He had everyone fooled, including Jean and even the professor. He told them he didn’t remember anything about the year that he was fifteen, the year he’d been taken to Three Mile Island. He had lied.)

It was all because of that thing. That _thing_ that had happened to him. Whatever those people had done to him when he was just a kid—whatever they’d taken from him—it hadn’t just had to do with his eyes.

“Oh Scott,” Jean said, jumping to her feet. She realized just how upset he was. She reached for him.

He took a step back. Put his hands up.

She stopped moving forward.

He turned away and went back into the bathroom. There he braced himself against the sink, but he didn’t look in the mirror.

She appeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said. “I thought it was something with me. I thought I’d tell you afterwards.”

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

“I’m sure it’s something we can solve,” she said. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of . . . playing around with hormones or something.”

He raised his head to look at her. He glared.

She moved back, startled.

“It has nothing to do with hormones,” he said.

He pushed past her as he went back into the bedroom. He went into his closet to get a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. He slipped on his clothes without bothering to put on any underwear.

She stood feet away, watching him. “Where are you going?”

He straightened and looked at her. “You know where I’m going.” He grabbed his shoes. He didn’t bother to put them on until he was at the stairs.

He took his motorcycle out for a drive. Hours later, he was finally calm enough to come home and talk. And then, without thinking—while still just feeling, feeling like he’d failed her in some awful way—he agreed that yes, he would go to the doctor. For her. 

###

The following weeks were something he didn’t care to remember. He had to come to terms with things—quickly. Jean made him an appointment to see a specialist in the city. She pulled some strings. She said she’d go with him. Then, the day before, she got a phone call from their senator. He wanted her to testify before a special subcommittee on mutant affairs. This threw Jean into a tailspin.

“I can go by myself,” Scott said quietly the morning of his consultation. What he didn’t tell Jean was that he was taking all of this—the fact that Jean had gotten called up, the static about the Registration Act—as a big motherfucking sign. A sign of what, he wasn’t sure.

But he knew by then that he wasn’t going to have any children. Not biologically, anyway. He’d worked his way through it, thought of the things that had happened to him on Three Mile Island, the things he’d pretended to bury, and he knew. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him what was so painfully obvious, and what had been obvious for some time now.  

“You sure?” she said. “I hate the idea of you going to something like that all by yourself.”

He was missing something. He felt that about himself. He wondered—and very realistically, and for the first time in years and years—if she really might leave him when the answer came back.

“All I have to do is jack off into a cup, right? I’d love to have you help me, but I think I’ll be okay on my own.”

She smiled. But she was sad, he could tell.

He rode the train to the city that day, but it wasn’t until he actually got there that he realized that there was no way he could go to the doctor.

He just couldn’t. He couldn’t give up his secrets to some unknown person in a white coat, not when he’d already given up so much.

So he went downtown, sat in Central Park, and watched the joggers pass by.

He’d always known.

He hadn’t asked himself any of those old, awful self-pitying questions in a long time—why him, why that, why had he been taken—all that. But as he sat on the bench in the park and made the conscious choice to skip his appointment, he let himself feel sad and tight inside. He allowed himself to indulge.

No one really knew. _No one_. Jean couldn’t know—and how dare she presume to tell him what to do? The professor could read minds, could study all of the psychology journals in the world, but even he couldn’t know. He couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel the sensation of waking up in a pit somewhere after you’d been operated on. And what else. And everything else—everything _else_ they’d done to him.  

And about all that? Scott had made a choice. And this was how:

He made love to Jean for the first time one November morning, years and years ago, when the two of them were still high school students at the mansion. He’d snuck into her bedroom in the dark, cold hours before the bell went off. They had planned it. Ororo was out of town—some special student UN function in the city. This gave them some privacy and some time.

That morning, the mansion was cold and drafty.

“Have you ever done this before?” she asked him, her hand around him. Her hand was cold. Her bare skin was against his. They were both freezing.

“Yes . . . no. I mean, I . . . don’t know.” _The island didn’t count_ , he thought, but before the thought could spring from his lips, he sucked in his breath and tried not to shiver. He felt his stomach muscles jump with anticipation and fear.

She paused and considered him. Knew, somehow, that he was telling the truth—or the truth as he wanted to know it. Then she made the choice to touch him again—despite everything. “It’s okay,” she said. She kissed him. “It’ll be okay. I promise.” And then she bent over and kissed him again, harder. With that she erased his past. Made that other stuff—that island stuff—not count. It didn’t count, it didn’t count. He was hers. She made him someone who didn’t have to account for his past anymore. She made him someone good.

He was awkward and the whole thing was difficult—not really satisfying for either of them. But Jean was good-natured about it and even joked, though not at his expense. And he felt better instantly. And then they tried again, and again. And it got better. It got really good.

He made the choice then. Made the choice to stop thinking about what had happened and think only about the life that lay ahead of him. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about what had happened before. If he stopped to think about it, stopped to let himself go underneath all that and think about what some people were capable of, what they’d used him for—he’d suffocate.

In the end, his life and his denial of his memories were all an exercise in self-discipline, and he’d eventually be admired by others—students, teachers, teammates, Jean—for this self-discipline. With his mind, he managed to keep those thoughts at bay. He protected himself from himself. He chose to live.

So when Jean wanted him to go to the doctor? She didn’t know what she was asking. She was asking him to go back on a decades-long pact he’d made with himself. And more: She was asking him to lie prostrate somewhere, under someone’s gaze. She was asking more than he could give. So he would go back up to Westchester County and tell her that he’d gone. Then he’d pretend to get the results back and say something about needing to avoid jacuzzis. And later on he’d concentrate on the rest. But by the time she found out that he lied, that he hadn’t seen the doctor at all? The world was already going to hell. And they wouldn’t have time to really talk until later, until it was almost too late.

But in that instance, they were lucky. For that particular conversation, it wasn’t too late. 

###

Two weeks passed. Logan didn’t return with Scott’s bike. No one heard from Logan at all.

Jean got him in for another consultation. He’d been. He was waiting for the results.

The professor was making some noise about going to visit Magneto in prison. Scott thought it was a bad idea, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to talk Charles out of it.

So that Friday he taught his upper-level Spanish class. Friday was the day they took a break from grammar and read Latin American literature in translation—magical realism, all that good stuff, the stuff Scott would teach all the time if the professor would let him. On this day they were reading Llosa, and Kitty was discussing how the story had really moved her—how the images had made a perfect picture in her mind or something like that, when he looked up to see John mouth something to Jubilee and make the jack-off gesture.

He sat back in his chair. “John.”

John stopped and sat up straight.

Scott thought for a second. He wondered how he might handle this. John was a bright but troubled student, and lately he’d seemed even more troubled. There was Rogue, of course—a complication to the sometimes rocky but otherwise ho-hum friendship he’d previously enjoyed with Bobby—but there was also something else. John seemed to take personally the events surrounding Liberty Island and the Registration Act. In composition class, he wrote a long-winded essay that basically circled around one central point: mutants shouldn’t take crap anymore. Scott had filled the margins with comments, trying to get John to think reflexively and consider all sides and all that shit—but he knew that John was going through something. And it was something he just needed to deal with.

He’d read John’s file. He knew that the kid didn’t come from the sort of background that inspired Hallmark movies. Scott knew what that was like—but he also knew enough not to presume any kind of kinship or shared history with John. It wouldn’t be appropriate to do so.

So Scott decided to let it go—and against his better judgment, too. Five minutes later, John was mouthing something that looked like “eat shit, cunt” to Kitty.

Scott slammed his hand down on the desk. “John,” he said, this time more strongly. He stood up and moved around the other side of the desk and motioned to the door. “Out.”

John sat there. Bobby sat beside him, but he didn’t look up.

“You heard what I said,” Scott said. “You’re done with this class today. This class is a privilege, not a right, and you’ve shown that you aren’t ready for the privilege.”

John still didn’t stand. Then, he did. He held the photocopy of the story between his thumb and his finger. “This,” he said, facing Scott, “is an absolute piece of shit story.”

“We’ll discuss your literary tastes in detention.”

“No,” John said. “This.” He thrust the story forward. “I’m tired of reading about this simple-ass boring human bullshit. These two assholes and their stupid normal boring human fight. If they were mutants it might be worth reading.” John’s glance slid to Bobby, but Bobby still made no response.

Scott just stared.

“Why don’t we ever read mutant authors?”

The tone of the conversation had suddenly shifted. John was hostile—no doubt—but now there seemed to be some room for productivity. And because the rest of the class didn’t seem to be on John’s side, Scott decided to just go with the moment.

“We don’t read mutant authors because there aren’t very many,” Scott said quietly.

“That’s bullshit,” John said. “We don’t read them because the world is full of crap.”

Scott nodded and gestured to the door again. “If you’re so concerned about a lack of mutant authors, perhaps you should try your own hand at writing. Now. The rest of us would like to continue with class.”

“It’s crap,” John repeated, but he retreated to the door. He tossed the story into the trash can on his way out.

Scott met with him in his office later. During detention, he led John from the classroom and into his office.

“Okay,” Scott said once he was situated behind his desk. He gestured to the empty seat “So what’s going on?”

John slumped in the chair. He looked away.

Scott just waited.

He was used to doing a lot of waiting. At that point he was waiting to hear back from the doctor, waiting for the answer he knew was coming—the confirmation of what he’d always secretly known but had hoped to never find out.

And he was waiting to get his bike back. That somehow seemed more real to him, more pressing. He _needed_ that goddamn bike. Now more than ever. And Logan had it, Christ.

“You’ve been with us for about two years now,” Scott said quietly.

John looked up, his eyes red. He seemed surprised. Surprised, perhaps, that he wasn’t going to get a lecture. Then he just seemed wounded.

“How would you describe your experience here?”

John shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“What about it is okay?”

John took a breath. “The food.”

Scott sat back in his chair. You’re not that original, he thought. “You get good grades. What’s your favorite class?”

John looked down. He rubbed his hands along his thighs. “Biology.”

Jean’s class. Right.

“You have a lot of friends,” Scott said. “That’s important.”

John sneered. “Yeah.”

“You do,” Scott said. “I’ve seen you with your friends.”

John looked up again. His eyes met Scott’s. He wasn’t sneering or smiling anymore. Then he looked down. “You don’t know anything. I don’t have any friends anymore. I fucked up.”

“You fucked up? How is that?”

He grinned. “I deleted someone’s hard drive.”

Scott set his hand on the desk. He hadn’t heard about this—hadn’t heard a goddamn thing. He steadied his gaze. “Why did you do that?”

He scratched his forehead and shrugged. “I just felt like it.”

Scott wasn’t getting anywhere. This is why he left this sort of thing to Jean or the professor. Still. There was something, something that was just eluding him.

“But apparently when you delete someone’s hard drive,” John said, “you can get it back. Bobby figured out a way.” He paused. “It’s like, it’s never really gone.”

“You deleted Bobby’s hard drive.”

John sucked in his breath. “He’s not pissed about it anymore. I don’t know why. I would be.”

Scott leaned forward. “He forgave you because he’s your friend.”

John flinched and then glared at Scott. “You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything.” He sat back then. He brought his hand up to shield his eyes. “He didn’t forgive me.”

“But he will,” Scott said. He didn’t know why he felt so certain of that.

“He shouldn’t forgive me.” John dropped his hand and looked at Scott. “I don’t feel bad.”

“But you do,” Scott said. “Or you wouldn’t be talking about it.”

And that’s when John’s face crumpled. He chin collapsed. His mouth twitched. Scott jumped to his feet and started to come around to the other side of the desk. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “I promise.”

John flinched and drew away. He seemed put-off and offended. And right then Scott knew that someone else had said the same thing to John in some dark moment, some bleak night in the mansion, some shared terrain. Just as Jean had once said the same thing to him.

Then John looked up at Scott. His eyes were alarmed and disbelieving—as if he couldn't believe that a teacher would say these things, would sanction the forgiveness and acceptance of such an egregious act. “Why? Why would it be okay?”

Scott thought. “Because I believe it,” he said. It was something he just blurted out. He reached for John and pulled the boy to his feet, ignored the fact that the kid seemed uncomfortable. He didn’t put his arm around John. He just . . .held his arm. “And if you believe it, it’ll come true.”

“No,” John whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. He sniffled. “That’s some bullshit.”

“It’s not,” Scott said. He wanted to tell John about it, tell John about the thin, fragile line between the life you built for yourself and the shit that just happened to you—the difference between stuff you arranged on the surface, and all the rest that teemed underneath. You had to choose. You had to choose your life, and right then and there, he chose to believe this. He squeezed John’s arm again. “It’ll be okay. But you have to want it to be.”

The boy collapsed back into the chair. Scott just kept his hand on John’s shoulder and waited for him to finish crying. Outside of the mansion the afternoon slid into darkness, and outside of Scott’s office the sometimes-cheerful, sometimes-impatient shouts of the other kids echoed through the hallway.

  

October 2009


End file.
